


Swift Wings

by sv_you_know_who_I_am



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Pre-ACOTAR, Secret Identity, Survival, The Blood Rite, Wing-Clipping, cross-dressing, illyrians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sv_you_know_who_I_am/pseuds/sv_you_know_who_I_am
Summary: PRE-ACOTAR, set before and during the War.Bree is an Illyrian female dreading the day her wings are clipped. For years, she secretly trains with her beloved sister Emer, hoping that one day they'll find a way out of their destiny. When tragedy strikes, Bree must find a way to save her own wings and earn the glory and freedom she desires--even if that means changing her identity and breaking some of the highest laws of the Illyrian people.





	1. Females Do Not Fly

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for @acourtofempireandstorms, who won a prize in my 3,000-follower giveaway on tumblr! The character of Bree is her OC, and she also picked the setting and plot points. I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

Thousands of midnight wings beat the gloom-gray sky. The sound kept time to the beating in Bree’s heart like a drumline. When she was very small, she thought her heart was like a clock that was wound every time the legions flew overhead, and she feared that if they ever stopped flying one day, the clock would run down and her heart would stop beating as well.

“I want to fly among them one day,” she said wistfully to her grandmother as she clung to the cold stone doorframe, gazing up at the horde of Illyrian soldiers running their drills far above.

“Bah,” her grandmother said, shuffling over to grab Bree’s arm and drag her away from the door to do her chores. “Females do not fly. Females spin. Females cook. Females clean. And most importantly, females have younglings. Youngling males who will one day do our clans proud by fighting for glory.”

“Why can’t I fight for glory?” Bree whined.

Her grandmother whacked her in the stomach with her cane. “Because you are female. And look at your pitiful wings. A stiff wind would knock you right out of the sky even if you could fly!”

Bree sniffled and picked up her broom to finish her chores. She received a smaller portion of food that night, but she didn’t dare complain about the growl remaining in her stomach as she crawled into the massive bed she shared with her older sister, Emer. She shivered as their wings bumped against each other, but with some shifting around, they got comfortable as they always did. Nose-to-nose, they whispered to each other in the darkness of their room.

“I want to fly, Em,” Bree murmured. “Really fly.”

“I know,” Emer replied.

Bree glanced over Em’s shoulder at the other bed in the room, occupied by their older sister Saraid. She was the eldest of them still left at home, since their two other older sisters, Moira and Treasa, were already married off to strong warriors and were beginning their own broods. There were two other small youngling females in the house, Niamh and Aine, who were almost too little to do chores. Six of them--six daughters. Not a single strong male to become a warrior. Her mother almost never left the house for the shame of it.

The finger of moonlight from the window fell across Saraid’s back, illuminating her wings--and the brand upon her chest, still rather fresh, indicating that she’d had her first bleed and had her wings clipped. She’d submitted to it meekly, as their grandmother had instructed, but it had only been a couple of nights ago that Saraid had stopped crying in her sleep.

Em and Bree didn’t dare speak of it, but all they had to do was lock hazel eyes and know that their hearts were aligned. Neither of them wanted to suffer that fate.

“It’s going to be me next, Bree,” Em said, her whisper miserable. “I don’t know how much longer I have.” Emer was thirteen, and all the females in their family bled for the first time between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Moira had been early--twelve when she’d bled and had her wings clipped. They hadn’t even grown to their full size yet.

Bree’s were still growing, too. At nine years old, they were still dinky and weak from lack of exercise. But oh, how she longed to stretch them. “Can’t we run away? Find somewhere else to go?”

“We’re Illyrians,” Em said bitterly. “We’ll be known for what we are no matter where we go.”

Bree was quiet for a moment as she thought. “Then maybe we should enjoy our wings while we’ve got them.”

Em shifted on the bed as she perked up. “Bree . . . you might just be brilliant.” Bree smiled as she saw her sister’s mind work over the problem. “We’ll get our chores done extra fast, and then, when we’re done, we can sneak out to a little clearing I found when I was collecting firewood last week. There’s nothing interesting there so the males never come by. We can practice together! Learn how to fly together!”

Bree squeezed her sister’s hand in hers. “Please, let’s do it. I want to fly.”

“And maybe,” Em continued, her gaze growing distant, “maybe one day we’ll be strong enough to fly away before they can clip our wings. We can go to the continent! Or exploring. Or something. There’s got to be something better than this.”

Bree nodded, her face rubbing against the pillow. “We’ll make something better,” she said. “Just you and me.”

-

The little clearing Em had told Bree about was little, but it was also perfect. It was big enough for them to stretch out their wings to their full length, which was something they so rarely got to do in their cramped house. Their father was a camp lord, but after Em had been born, a third daughter, he’d set their mother aside in a smaller house and took a better wife to live with him in his manor. He never entirely gave up on their mother, which explained Bree, Niamh, and Aine, but neither were they given the status the children of an Illyrian lord were usually allowed. And their mother was so shamed that she considered her lot in life deserved.

Bree personally liked the quieter life. Her father had helped Moira and Treasa make good matches, and she saw what their life was like as higher-ranking wives. All attention, all the time. No opportunity to go out for a taste of freedom and she and Em liked to do.

Learning how to fly without a teacher was difficult at first, but once they figured out the basics, their natural-born instincts kicked in and it became almost as easy as breathing. But Em and Bree didn’t focus only on flying. They ran, climbed trees, did what they could to build up their strength. Em had heard a rumor that regular physical activity could hold off the bleeding, and it seemed to be working. Three years passed and Em hadn’t yet bled. The combination of the exercise and the herbs she regularly chewed were keeping her from bleeding, and she swore that she would hold it off as long as she could. She taught Bree her tricks, too, and gave her the herbs, as soon as she was old enough that she might bleed, too.

The afternoons when Bree could go out and fly around the little clearing with her sister were the happiest times of her life. She worked hard by day so no one would question what she was up to, and it allowed her wings to grow strong and powerful--not the weak flapping things that all the other females had. In time, her mother and grandmother noticed the strength of her wings and began to make vague mutterings about good stock--how she would be a _desirable_ match. The word made the back of Bree’s throat burn, and when she went out to train with her sister, she punched the target harder than usual.

“Bree, what’s the matter?” Em asked, tossing her dark brown braid behind her shoulder.

“They want to ship me off,” Bree growled, fighting to keep her lower lip from trembling. “They say I’m _good stock_.”

Em snarled and her wings flared. She dropped the training pads and grabbed Bree firmly by the shoulders. “I swear to you, Bree, I won’t let them sell you off. We’ll escape here before that. I’m hoping that if I can put off my bleeding long enough, they’ll kick me out for shame, and I’ll be able to take you with me.”

Bree sniffled and rubbed her chilled cheeks.

“Hey, chin up,” Em said, nudging Bree’s jaw with her knuckle. “They don’t know we’ve been training all this time. I bet between the two of us we could take on any Illyrian pig who comes to breed with you.”

“You think so, do you?”

Em hissed and shoved Bree behind her. Bree yelped in alarm as three tall figures strode into the clearing, all of them black-haired and smirking. All of them had wings spread out wide behind them, and two of them had multiple Siphons strapped to their arms and chest.

Suddenly Em grabbed Bree’s arm and pulled her down into the light layer of snow on the ground. “Prince Rhysand,” she gasped. “Forgive us, please! We weren’t training, we were playing. That’s all.”

 _Prince Rhysand?_ Bree’s stomach churned in terror. She’d only heard stories of the Prince, of his battle prowess and his feats during the Blood Rite. Not to mention the magic he’d inherited from his father, High Lord Caradoc.

Bree’s favorite stories were of his mother, Lady Aerona, whose wings had never been clipped because the High Lord had found his mate in her and let her continue to fly. Bree had never dared hope for such a story for herself, but whenever she was most afraid of losing her wings, she’d think of Lady Aerona, and it would give her hope.

She had little hope now as her son, the Prince of Night, looked down on them with the two strongest Illyrian warriors in the army, Cassian and Azriel, standing on either side of him.

They’d broken the law. They’d been training, and females weren’t allowed to train.

“I think I know training pads when I see them,” said the one with red Siphons. Cassian, if Bree remembered the stories properly. She dared glance up at him from her kneeling position, and her stomach swooped at his handsome, rugged demeanor. She wasn’t brave enough to dare look at Prince Rhysand.

“They were being thrown out,” Em said in a hurry. “We were just pretending with them. That’s all!”

Prince Rhysand chuckled to himself. “I know you’re lying. If you know who I am, surely you know of my gifts.”

Bree whimpered as her blood ran cold. They were going to die--she just knew it. “Please, Your Highness! Forgive us!”

“Look how terrified they are,” Prince Rhysand said to his companions. “It’s as though they think I’m going to mist them on the spot.”

The one with blue Siphons--Azriel--cleared his throat. From the corner of her eye, Bree saw him nod in their direction.

Prince Rhysand said, “Stand up.”

Bree and Em stood on shaking legs, their pants now soaked through from the cold.

“Have either of you come into your power yet?” he asked simply.

Em swallowed and shook her head. “No, Your Highness.”

Prince Rhysand frowned. “You should be old enough. How old are you?”

Bree could feel her sister’s pulse pounding in her wrist where Bree held her tight. “I’m sixteen, Your Highness. They . . . they’re going to clip my wings soon. So . . . so it won’t matter how much training I’ve done.”

A smirk danced across the prince’s mouth. “That’s not what it sounded like to me, just now. Didn’t you say you planned to fight off any male who came to claim your . . . sister, is it?”

“I--I--”

“Don’t be alarmed,” Prince Rhysand said, raising a calming hand. “I would hardly stop you.” He looked between the sisters. “Do you think my mother raised me not to know what you females go through up here? What are your names?”

“Emer and Bree, daughters of Lord Bradach,” Emer said.

“Bradach,” Cassian muttered. “That explains a lot.”

“Does your family know you’re out here?” Prince Rhysand asked.

“No,” Bree and Em said in unison.

“Your Highness, please don’t tell anyone,” Bree begged. Emer shot her a look, but Bree ignored her. “We work very hard. We always do our chores. But we wanted to know what it was like to fly.”

Azriel cleared his throat but said nothing.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare tell,” Prince Rhysand assured them. “Unlike some other males, I appreciate females who seek to better themselves. Who desire power of their own. And, true to my reputation, I have a soft-spot for rulebreakers.” He glanced at Cassian, who grinned like a wolf. “Nevertheless, I must remind you that what you are doing is very dangerous. You might face worse than wing-clipping if you are discovered.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the sisters murmured.

“Keep training and you might be fit for service one day,” Cassian remarked with a wink.

“Don’t get their hopes up, Cassian,” Azriel warned in a low voice.

“Could we really?” Bree asked, ignoring the shadowsinger. “Could we join the army someday?”

Prince Rhysand grimaced. “That is currently not allowed, as per my father’s edicts. If it were up to me, I’d encourage it. Especially for those who are so likely to need Siphons one day.”

Bree’s heart did a somersault. Did Prince Rhysand think she and Em had the killing power? None of their sisters had shown signs of it, but their wings had been clipped so early, and the killing power often didn’t manifest until later . . .

“For now, however . . .” Bree’s attention turned back to the prince as he leveled a serious look at the sisters. “Don’t get caught.”

Bree and Em nodded emphatically.

“This will be our little secret,” Prince Rhysand said with a feline smile. “Follow your instincts. Protect yourselves. This is a dark time we’re living in, after all.”

With that, he and the two Illyrian warriors faded once more into the darkness of the trees, leaving Bree and Emer alone in their special, no-longer-secret clearing.


	2. The Killing Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bree and Emer have gone four years without discovery, but their grandmother’s scheme to banish Emer and give Bree to a fearsome commander goes awry. When everything is torn from her, Bree must seize her chance at freedom and embrace a power she never expected to wield.

 

**CHAPTER TWO - THE KILLING POWER**

A year passed, and Bree wasn’t sure if it was the herbs, sheer determination, or some other kind of magic, but Emer did not bleed. Their mother and grandmother were beginning to get nervous, and Bree would often hear them muttering to each other about the shame, about what would happen if anyone found out that Lord Bradach had sired a faulty female.

“If this is anyone’s fault, it isn’t Lord Bradach’s. It’s yours, Líadan,” Bree heard her grandmother hiss. She waved her cane in her daughter’s direction. Doireann used the cane not because her fae body was old and wrinkled, but because she had been badly beaten and wounded in her youth during a skirmish between two rival camps. Thankfully she’d already given birth to two sons and Líadan, so she had “secured her honor” before her disgrace. Doireann was beautiful and fierce, with raven’s wing hair and dark eyes that burned the soul when she was angry. Bree had learned early never to get in the way of Grandmother Doireann and her cane. Líadan, by comparison, was meek and burdened with the constant disappointment of bearing only daughters. Now, she sat in her chair by the fire, cringing out of the way of her mother’s cane and barely managing to fight back.

“I raised her well! She’s my third--if there were any flaw with me, wouldn’t it have shown by now?” Sioned argued.

“It has,” Doireann snapped bitterly. “Only girls! Thankfully Bree seems strong. Impressive wings. If she bleeds first we’ll arrange something for her immediately so that everyone will forget the disgrace of Emer.”

Bree’s mouth went dry and she waited for her mother to say something in her defense, but it never came. Líadan just nodded her head sadly. “What about Emer?” she asked quietly.

“Expose her,” Doireann said, setting her cane on the ground with a _thud_. “Tomorrow night she turns seventeen. If she doesn’t bleed before then, declare her a waste and cast her out where the waste belongs.”

Bree pressed her hands to her her. If it weren’t for the awfulness of it, she would be happy for Emer. This was what she’d been counting on. If she was cast out, she’d prepared enough that she would be able to survive, get free--and maybe take Bree with her.

Still, she lowered her hands and curled them in fists at her sides at the injustice of it. This--this life. Emer didn’t deserve it. Neither did she. The skin at her knuckles crackled, and the spark jerked her back to reality.

A hand closed over her shoulder and she almost yelped in alarm, but it was only Emer. Her elder sister put a finger to her lips and pulled Bree away to bed, the look in her eyes telling Bree that she’d heard everything.

And that she was ready.

-

Bree and Emer hardly slept that night. Instead, they passed the dark hours going over their plans one more time, as they had done for the past four years. They knew the plan backwards and forwards by now. They’d buried supplies in the clearing. They’d even stolen a couple of weapons to take with them. So Bree knew what she would need to do to escape with her sister once she was officially cast out.

They were quiet the next day, pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary. Still, Bree was restless, and the strange sparking at her knuckles persisted and distracted her from simple tasks. She got Grandmother Doireann’s cane to the knees once, but the pain hardly lingered.

Finally, the sun went down, and the moment they’d been waiting for came. Grandmother Doireann called Emer and Bree into the den. Aoife and Niamh were sent to bed early.

“Emer,” Grandmother Doireann began. “You have disgraced this family.”

Emer ducked her head, ever the meek, submissive daughter.

“You have not bled. There is likely a fault in your body, one that we cannot risk passing on and having linked to this family’s name. We wish to keep this a secret, and so we will deal with this quietly. Emer, you must leave this house.”

Emer lifted her face, false tears in her eyes. Only Bree knew her well enough to see the slight dimple at the corner of her mouth that always appeared when she was giddy. “Grandmother!” she protested. “I am sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me--I’ve tried everything!”

 _Everything to stop it_ , Bree thought.

“Leave before dawn. You will no longer be welcome here,” Grandmother Doireann declared. “We are no longer responsible for your survival.”

“Mother!” Emer cried, looking to Líadan. Their mother just averted her eyes.

Emer turned and faced Bree, wrapping her tightly in her arms as though it was the last time they would see each other. She put on a show of crying into Bree’s shoulder, and Bree let some fake tears fall as well.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Grandmother Doireann cursed. “He’s early,” she muttered. “In the corner, you too.” She waved her cane at Bree and Emer. Confused, they obeyed the command.

Their mother opened the door, and across the threshold stood a massive Illyrian warrior with a hideous scar across his face. He was missing one eye, and his hair was matted. A fierce grin spread across his face. “Dame Líadan,” he murmured, his voice deep. His amber eyes looked over the room and sparked when they fell on Bree and Emer. “Which one is it?” he asked.

Bree’s blood went cold.

“The smaller one,” Grandmother Doireann answered, jerking her thumb at Bree. “She’s not bled yet, but she’s close, and she has powerful wings on her. She’ll surely make you fine younglings.”

“What?” Emer barked, all trace of false sorrow gone. She shoved Bree behind her into the corner and took a step toward the warrior. “She’s only thirteen! She can’t be given away yet!”

“She can if we want her to,” Grandmother Doireann snapped. “If you’re smart, Emer, don’t say another word.”

“No! You can’t have her!” Emer argued. Her wings ruffled at her back. “If you want her, you’ll have to go through me!” She snapped out her strong wings, and behind her back she palmed the shiv that she’d taken to carrying at all hours.

“I’ll take both,” the male said casually, as though Emer were nothing more than an angry kitten. “It makes no difference to me.”

“You don’t want the elder,” Grandmother Doireann said, her nostrils flaring. “She’s too headstrong. She’ll be more trouble than she’s worth.”

The warrior laughed. “You think I would have the least bit trouble taming her? I am one of the High Lord’s most dependable generals. He sends me on jobs that he entrusts to no one else. An unruly female is nothing to me. And,” he said, sending those amber eyes toward Emer and Bree again, “I do like the look of those wings.”

Emer snapped.

To everyone’s shock, she launched herself at the warrior, pulling out her shiv and slicing at his neck. Líadan screamed, Doireann lashed out with her cane, and the warrior’s eyes went wide before he reacted faster than Bree had ever seen anyone move in her life. His arm rose and struck Emer in the side, knocking her out of the air just as her shiv scraped his throat. Emer went flying around the room from the force of the blow, colliding with the wall and landing on the table, which collapsed beneath her.

“Em!” Bree cried. She began to run toward her sister, but her grandmother’s cane slammed into her torso and held her back. Bree cried as the Illyrian prowled toward her groaning sister. He reached down with one hand and grabbed her by the fabric on the front of her chest. He lifted her into the air so she dangled a foot off the floor.

“Good fire,” the Illyrian said. “That will breed well. But you’re right--she needs some domesticating first.” He slapped Emer across the face hard enough that her head snapped to the side. She struggled against him, but she couldn’t make him release his hold on her shirt. “You are a _female_ ,” he barked. “Bearing weapons is against the law. Thankfully, I know just how to punish you.” He dropped her to the ground and she cried out as her ankle twisted beneath her. Then he turned and approached Bree. “You seem to like your sister an awful lot. Maybe I’ll make her suffer your punishment.”

“No! Bree!” Emer shrieked as the warrior snatched Bree’s wrist. “I . . . I’ll kill you!”

The warrior pulled Bree tight against his chest and pulled out a dagger. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bree began to cry out and struggle as the dagger approached her face, but then, the house began to shake. The male drew the blade away and his eyes fixed on Emer again, his nostrils flaring. “Well . . . isn’t that convenient?”

Emer looked around in shock and horror as her power leaked out of her . . . just like it had for Moira, Treasa, and Saraid, letting the whole world know just what potential she continued.

The smell struck Bree’s nose, too, and her body became cold and heavy as stone.

Emer let out a wild, keening wail as the realization struck her.

She had begun to bleed.

-

Grandmother Doireann was nothing less than ecstatic. The warrior left only a few minutes later to say he would be back to retrieve Emer-- _and_ Bree--as soon as Emer’s wings were clipped. Emer screamed and cried and begged so much that Grandmother Doireann locked her in the shed until dawn. Bree crawled into her bed to avoid bringing more trouble down on herself, but she didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, she plotted how to get her sister out before the warrior came back for them the next day. She didn’t care who he was or how well-regarded he was by the High Lord--she would not submit to life in his household.

Bree hastily shoved food in her mouth the next morning and hurried out to the shed where Emer was being kept. She broke the lock with a large stone and fell into her sister’s arms, crying. “Em! Em!” she wept, holding her sister close.

“Bree,” Em said. Her voice was hoarse from the screaming, and her whole body was cold. Bree gave her some warm bread and meat that she had snuck out from the house.

“We’ve got to go,” Bree said. “We’ll go to the clearing, get our things, and vanish. No one will be the wiser!”

Emer shook her head. “Bree, we can’t. That warrior has a good scent on us, now. He’ll find us before we can make it past the mountains, and at that point I doubt he’ll think it worth the trouble to keep us alive.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Bree cried. “We can make it! I can’t let you go through this. I can’t let you lose your wings!”

“It’s too late for me, Bree,” Emer croaked. “But not for you. Once he has me, maybe I can convince him to wait on you. You’re still so young, after all. Make him promise to come back for you another time. Then, once he takes me away, you can escape.”

“I’m not leaving without you!” Bree exclaimed.

Emer grasped both of Bree’s hands in hers. “You have to. Please, Bree. Get out of you while you still can!”

Tears rolled down Bree’s face. “I won’t make it without you.”

“You will,” Emer said, her voice soothing. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Bree’s forehead. “You’re strong, and brave, and you know how to survive. Stay in the mountains as long as you have to. Maybe get to another court one day. But please, Bree. _Survive_.”

Bree fell into her sister’s arms again and cried until she had no more tears left to cry. Too soon, voices approached from behind them and Bree was pulled away from her sister. “No!” she cried.

Her grandmother’s cane whacked her knees. “Stay out of the way, child. Unless you want to be locked in this shed instead.”

No. She couldn’t be locked up, not if she was going to get her chance to escape. So she fell quiet and stepped back as her grandmother pulled Emer up and out of the shed, thrusting her into the arms of two males who had come to perform the wing-clipping. Emer struggled in an effort to preserve a scrap of dignity, but then she let the males lead her away. Bree and her mother followed behind. Bree noticed the blood on her sister’s trousers. Disgust filled her gut--they hadn’t even given Emer anything to clean herself with. Sparks crackled at Bree’s knuckles as the fury continued to rise in her.

They led Emer to the front yard near the well, where a platform had been erected. Emer was led upon the platform and forced onto her knees. The males spread her wings out wide and tied them to posts on either side of the platform.

Bree couldn’t hold in her scream at seeing her sister like that. “Emer!” she shrieked.

“Congratulations, Emer, daughter of Bradach. You have reached your maturity and are now ready to continue the honor of your line by producing younglings for Lord Fearghas, Commander of High Lord Caradoc’s armies.” The first male spoke in a dull voice, and Bree cringed as he pronounced the name of the Illyrian who had visited the night before. She would remember that name until the day she died. Once she was free, and strong, she would hunt him down and kill him and set her sister free.

“Your name will be honored and you will be treasured as his wife. But, according to tradition and in the name of your own protection, we clip your wings so that they will not drain your strength in childrearing.”

“Please, don’t,” Emer moaned. She thrashed, but her wings were securely pinned. “Please!” The spark in her lit up again and she began to struggle more fiercely.

“Stay still!” ordered the other male as he pulled out the ceremonial blade to render her wings useless.

The blade descended toward Emer’s wings, and the fury that had been building up in Bree exploded from her. She wrenched away from her mother, who’d been holding her, and charged up onto the platform. She snapped her wings out and sent one of the males staggering. “Don’t touch her!” Bree cried.

“Bree! Get down!” Emer cried.

“No! I won’t let them . . . I won’t let them do this!”

“Stop interfering with the ceremony!” scolded one of the males. Bree held her sparking fists up in front of her, just like she had practiced doing with Emer for years.

But she was so small.

“Move, child, or we’ll cut you, too!” snapped the first male.

“Stay away from her!” Bree shrieked.

One of the males wrapped his arm around Bree’s waist and held her back. Her wings flailed, but the other male gripped one wing and held it tight, stretching it taut before the blade. “We warned you,” he ground out. “Bleeding or not, we can’t have you causing trouble.”

Bree screamed as the blade descended toward her membrane. Suddenly there was an immense cracking noise and Emer had ripped apart her restraints just enough to leap between the male and Bree’s wing.

It was too late for the knife to slow.

Bree watched with horrified eyes as time dragged out before her. She saw the moment the silver blade of the knife punctured Emer’s skin and buried itself in her chest. She saw the blood begin to flow. She saw her sister fall to a heap on the ground, one wing still pinned to the pole where it had been restrained.

Bree couldn’t hear herself scream. All she knew was that the world turned green--a glorious emerald green--until it was all she could see. A bright light erupted from her fists and her chest, pushing her brown hair back from her head like a great wind. The ripple burst through the yard, and somewhere in the distance she could hear people crying out in fear.

When the light ended, Bree dropped to her knees, shaking hard. She turned Emer over in her lap, her sister’s hazel eyes quickly becoming dull. Blood stained her shirt--the strike had been deep. Too deep.

“Bree,” she whispered hoarsely, raised a bloodstained hand to Bree’s cheek. “I told you. You’re--you’re powerful.”

“What?” Bree asked. It was then that the cries of the others began to make sense to her.

“She--she killed them!”

“She has the Killing Power!”

She looked up and let out a broken cry when she saw the two males fallen in broken postures beside her and her sister. Their eyes were blank, their bodies limp. The green . . . she . . . she had . . .

“Escape,” Emer rasped, drawing Bree’s attention back to her. “Go on, my little bat. Get out of here. _Survive_.” Bree sobbed until tears splashed her sister’s face. Emer’s nails dug into Bree’s cheek. “ _Go!_ ”

“Em . . .” Bree moaned, stroking her sister’s hair away from her face.

“I love you, Bree. Fly away. Fly away for me.” Emer coughed and spat up blood, and after a few terrible shudders, her hand dropped away from Bree’s face. Her shoulders went slack and her head dropped back, eyes falling shut.

A loud keening noise erupted from Bree then as she held her sister and rocked her. But then she heard noises, and she saw more males approaching her--to restrain her. It was too early--she shouldn’t have the Killing Power yet. She shouldn’t have it at all. But she did, and she . . . she’d used it. She’d killed people.

She had to get away or she would be locked up forever. But for Emer . . . for Emer, she’d fly.

Bree leapt to her feet, nearly collapsing again as her knees wobbled below her. Then she took off at a run to the edge of the platform, spreading her wings far on either side. With two great beats, she lifted off into the sky, drawing cries of fear and wonder from her family and neighbors gathered below her.

This . . . this was freedom.

If only it hadn’t come at such a cost.


	3. The Greatest Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bree strikes out on her own to survive in the Illyrian Steppes, but the older she gets, the harder it is to go unnoticed. Her ingenuity and the help of an odd faerie give her the tools she needs to make it in the harsh mountains of the Night Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is for @acourtofempireandstorms, who won a prize in my 3,000-follower giveaway! The character of Bree is her OC, and she also picked the setting and plot points. I hope you enjoy it! There’s an assault warning for this chapter, but nothing too graphic.

Bree became a ghost.

After flying away from what had been her home, she vanished into the mountains, avoiding all contact with other Illyrians and doing whatever she could to survive the harsh climate. She was running, always running--from her past, from her future, and from the terrifying green power that sprung from her hands whenever her emotions spiked.

She hadn’t stopped that day to fully process the destruction she’d wrought, but she knew down in her bones that she shouldn’t be able to do something like that. The Killing Power was for males, or so she had always been told. But perhaps . . . perhaps the Killing Power was for anyone, regardless of gender, and it only seemed absent in females because they were so demoralized by the time they came of age that it could not manifest.

Bree was broken and battered, but she was not so destroyed as to lose her power. Though it frightened her at first, she came to depend on the green energy that thrummed beneath her skin. She used it to light fires in the woods, to knock down trees so she could build herself shelters, and to kill game for her food. It was an unharnessed, clumsy thing. She usually destroyed more than she intended, but she knew it was because she had no Siphons. And it was unlikely she would ever receive one.

Bree was able to survive the summer months on her own, and she went so long without company that the thought of returning to a camp or town for supplies was terrifying. She knew what would happen the second she did so. They would know that her wings hadn’t been clipped--she lacked the brand that indicated a clipped female--and they would sense her Killing Power. She’d be turned over to the camp leader before she could say Prythian. But she had little choice. Her knives were becoming dull, and game would become scarcer in the winter.

She camped in the forest high above an encampment far from where she’d grown up. She was further south now, but that didn’t mean the winter wouldn’t still be vicious. But she watched carefully, thinking about the best way to creep in and get what she needed.

The camp was too populated. She couldn’t just stroll in. But . . .

She had an idea. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it could be just the thing to keep her from raising suspicions.

She’d seen the brand plenty of times--a brand on the shoulder, capable of being hidden or revealed by clothing when necessary. She knew the design of it. So, one night, in the safety of her shelter, she used her Killing Power to heat up the end of her knife. She stuffed part of her cloak into her mouth as she burned the design into her shoulder. Tears streamed down her face and her hands trembled so badly she knew the design would be poorly done. But it would work. No one would inspect it that closely. Bree curled onto her side and cried herself to sleep that night, wrapped in the warmth and safety of her strong, powerful wings.

The next day, she grabbed a bag and headed down to the encampment, holding her wings just as she’d seen other clipped females hold them--close to their bodies, as though they were weak and lame. She walked with her shoulders slouched and her head down. None of the males bothered to look her way, and she timed it right so that she was able to stuff lengths of jerky and tack into her bag to feed her in the winter. She also snatched a whetstone and a warmer pair of gloves. But she paced herself. She could hit another camp in a week or two, and no one would be any the wiser.

Emer had sacrificed herself so Bree could survive. And she would survive.

She lingered by the campfire as the sun set, listening to the gossip to find out if anyone was trying to search for her. She had done this periodically in the past several months and heard nothing, but she refused to let her guard down.

“The High Lord has been on edge lately,” said one male as he waved a pheasant leg in the air. “Hybern’s been acting up, apparently. Humans are getting ready to fight back where they’re still slaves in the south.”

“Humans? Like they could do anything.”

“Exactly. Which is why Caradoc thinks we should.”

There was a round of muttering as the soldiers shook their heads in disbelief. “Fighting with humans,” scoffed one. “Embarrassing.”

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen real battle, though. And we wouldn’t be fighting humans. We’d be going after Spring and Autumn Court scum. Not to mention the Queen of the Black Lands. And Amarantha.”

The males crowed in eagerness. “Now that’s a fight worth celebrating!”

Bree crept away as she processed the news. If there was a war, the males would be called away to fight, and the females would be left behind to provide their supplies and keep society together. But the males would be gone . . . off in faraway places, fighting, earning glory . . .

Bree’s fist clenched at her side as she considered the possibility. If she joined the army . . . perhaps she could escape. Really escape. She thought back to her encounter with Prince Rhysand and his comrades several years ago. Cassian had said she could be fit for service one day. Maybe . . .

As she hiked back up to her shelter in the forest, she considered all the possibilities. She could train. She knew how to make herself strong. Cauldron, she was already much stronger than she’d been, having survived alone for months already. If she kept practicing with her Killing Power and became older and stronger . . . maybe.

A scent drifted on the wind and Bree froze where she stood, almost dropping her bag at her side. Her wings flared on instinct as she saw a figure digging through her supplies under her shelter.

Not a chance. She couldn’t lose any of her supplies.

She crept through the trees until she was close enough to the shelter, and then, when the creature had its back turned, she launched herself toward it and tackled it onto the needle-strewn grown. The creature yelped and its claws scratched at Bree, but she wrestled it until she had its bony wrists pinned beneath her. It was bigger than she’d thought--nearly the size of a grown woman--but it was frail and pale and gray, with wrinkled skin and tattered clothes.

“What do you want?” Bree demanded.

“I’m just . . . just hungry!” the creature moaned. It was female, she realized, and . . .

A gwyllion.

Bree leapt off the creature, stories whirling through her mind. She knew exactly what she would have to do to get the creature to go away--they hated knives, and all she would have to do was flash hers to frighten the faerie off. But if she took the other path, treated the gwyllion kindly . . . the stories said it might do her a favor.

“There’s no need to steal,” Bree said. “I can give you something.” The gwyllion gaped at Bree and then scrambled to its feet. It looked like an old female, with a cascade of coarse gray hair and frail joints. But from their brief tussle, Bree knew it was stronger than it looked. Its eyes were big and black and its smile held sharp teeth, but Bree did not fear the creature. She kept her knife ready at her side in case the faerie denied her hospitality.

Not that she had much to offer. But still.

She sat cross-legged under her lean-to and gestured for the gwyllion to join her. Without speaking to the faerie, she tore up several piece of jerky and divided it between them. She also offered the gwyllion an egg she’d hard-boiled earlier than day. The gwyllion consumed the food ravenously--it was said that these creatures were like nymphs: always hungry. Bree glanced down and saw the tell-tale articles that gwyllions always carried. A pot and a four-cornered hat. She offered the items back to the gwyllion, which smacked its lips in satisfaction.

“As I said, there’s no need to steal. Many are happy to share,” Bree said.

“Wb! Many are not,” said the gwyllion in a hoarse voice. “It is rare that other fae please me. Especially Illyrians.” Bree grimaced. “But you . . . you are different. In many ways.”

Bree only nodded in agreement. The fresh brand on her shoulder still stung and she winced.

“You have tended to my greatest trouble,” the gwyllion said. Bree’s heart jumped. “As a token of my good favor and as thanks, I shall help you with your greatest trouble. What is it?”

Bree thought carefully to ensure the best wording, the best solution for her predicament. “I am a female, but I want to join the army so that I can fight and escape the Illyrian Steppes. But once I start bleeding, my scent will give me away immediately. I need a way to stop my bleeding from coming so that I am not discovered.”

The gwyllion scratched its hairy chin with a bony finger. “I do not envy your kind their bleeding,” it mused. “I am not powerful enough to change nature in such a way. But I can make something for you, a charm, that will hide your scent as long as you wear it.” It placed its hat on its head and clutched its pots. “It will take me some time to gather the ingredients. Will you stay here for three days until I can return the trinket to you?”

Bree bit her lip. She’d planned to move on tomorrow. But this . . . if the gwyllion would keep its word, this could be everything she needed. “Yes,” she agreed. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. This is an exchange. Stay here and I will soon return. Wb!”

Bree watched the creature slink away, but she sighed with relief to know that, at the very least, the encounter with the gwyllion had not gone terribly wrong. She fell into an oddly peaceful sleep that night, and she passed the next several days continuing to creep into the camp for gossip. When she returned on the third day, the gwyllion was waiting for her.

It held out the charm, which was tied to a long chain. “The charm is the important bit. Make it a bracelet or crown or whatever you please,” it said. “This will make your scent unnoticeable. Untraceable. None will know you are female by your scent.”

Bree snatched the charm and clutched it in her palm. She unfurled her fingers to look at it. It was a simple pendant twisted out of grapevine fibers and decorated with feathers and pebbles. She knew each object must have some significance, so she was gentle as she hung it around her neck. “You have tended to my greatest trouble, as I have tended to yours. Let us part in peace.”

The words were stiff and formal, even as Bree wanted to dance for joy. But the gwyllion grinned. “Wb!” it declared, and it darted off into the trees.

-

Five Years Later

The gwyllion’s charm worked exactly as it had promised. When Bree began bleeding at the age of fifteen and her full power had emerged, she had been thankful to be alone deep in the forest so that no other Illyrians or fae could sense the eruption. She’d widened the clearing she’d been standing in by ten yards when the green Killing Power blasted with full force from her skin. She’d thought it had been difficult to manage before, but now . . .

Thankfully, with the charm around her neck, her hair cropped to her jawbones, and her muscled frame, no one suspected her true identity whenever she went into town anymore. She bound her chest and wore the charm, and plenty of people were willing to hire her as a temporary laborer. They sometimes wondered out loud why such a young male wasn’t off training in the army, but Bree would mutter something about bad eyesight and they’d stop asking questions.

She shifted identities as much as she needed. Sometimes it was more prudent to be a female, for they drew even less attention in certain places. She got a temporary stint as a barmaid for a winter season, which was better than camping out in the snowy forests despite the unpleasant aspects of the job. At age eighteen, she’d grown into herself, and she wore loose clothes to reveal the counterfeit brand on her shoulder and disguise some of her corded muscle. The males liked to ogle her as they served their drinks, but Bree dismissed them easily as she walked with confidence and surety--not scampering around like some of the other females who had been kicked far too often.

In her heart she pitied the other females. She wanted to reach out to them, but they were afraid of her--afraid of her confidence and power. She’d gotten some control over her Killing Power by salvaging shards of discarded Siphons. She’d strung them onto a chain that she wore around her wrist, and from a distance they were no more than pretty colored stones. Even most of the soldiers didn’t recognize them for what they were. Still, years of living alone, mostly in the forest, had given Bree an air of power and fearlessness that the other female both admired and feared. But Bree didn’t seek friendship with them. She hadn’t sought friendship with anyone since the day Emer had died.

She still had nightmares about it.

Her boss, the innkeeper, gave her another round of ale to pass out to soldiers on a training exercise, and they whistled as she passed the mugs about. One had his mouth hanging open. “Don’t look much closer our your eyes will fall out,” Bree quipped. The soldiers laughed heartily and smacked their comrade on the back. Bree flipped her slightly longer brown hair over her shoulder and began to walk away.

One of the soldiers snatched her wrist. “You occupied later?”

Bree’s tone was casual as she said, “You lot are my occupation.”

Another round of laughter came, but the soldier didn’t let go. “I mean it. I’m amazed a pretty thing like you hasn’t been snatched up for breeding by now.”

Bree’s stomach curdled at the word breeding, but she said, “Does this joint look like any place to raise younglings?”

“I’d take you away,” the slightly intoxicated soldier said. “And we wouldn’t have to worry about younglings--just fun, if you like it that way.”

Bree snatched her hand away and cleared her throat. “I prefer to have fun with bigger wingspans, if you catch my drift.” She looked up and down the soldier’s wings, and he almost turned purple in outrage and embarrassment as his fellow soldiers taunted him. Bree didn’t stick around to see the aftermath. She just went back to work, the same way she always did whenever this happened. It was a curse to deal with, but if it meant a warm roof over her head and money in her pocket for the rest of the year, she could learn to live with it.

She had just finished mopping up that night when the innkeeper told her that a tonic had been requested by a room upstairs.

“Couldn’t stomach your stew, eh?” Bree teased. The innkeeper just muttered under her breath and tossed her the key. Bree grabbed the tonic from the store cupboard and climbed the rickety stairs until she reached the right room. She knocked on the door, and her stomach dropped as she saw the soldier from earlier staring at her from across the threshold. He seemed sober now, but that wasn’t a good thing.

She was too slow to react as he grabbed her elbow and dragged her into the room with him. It was a tiny room, and it took only a little manipulation to knock her backward onto the bed. She screamed and kicked the wall, but she doubted anyone would be able to hear her.

This--no. She had watched her sister die and had lived alone in the forest for five damned years to avoid this. She spat in his face but he merely slapped her. “I’ll show you a wingspan,” he growled. She tried to reach for the shiv at her thigh, but the male pressed his hands against her throat, constricting her airway to dizzy and weaken her. “Be a good girl,” he hissed.

Bree bared her teeth. He’d just made a very big mistake. She crossed her arms and pressed down on his forearms, holding them tight to her chest. He grinned as though she was about to entertain him, but instead she hooked her leg over his calf and threw the weight of her body upward. Locked into an unbalanced position, the soldier went flying off the bed, falling into a heap on the ground. Bree let out another scream before she leapt onto the ground, drawing upon her Killing Power to end him before he could lay another hand on her. So what if she had to find another job?

Bree was almost overtop of him when he jerked up and took another swing at her. It connected with her jaw and her reeled back, cursing. She held up her hand to fight back when suddenly, the door behind them slammed open.

“Cauldron fry and boil me, what is going on in here? Some of us are trying sleep!” bellowed the massive soldier standing in the door. He had brown skin and black hair to his shoulders, and red Siphons glinted at the backs of his hands. Bree’s heart sputtered when she realized she recognized him.

Cassian.

Cassian looked quickly from the soldier on the ground with his pants half undone to Bree, who clutched her jaw still and looked ready to murder someone. Bree gasped as Cassian’s hazel eyes darkened and he prowled into the room, scooping the soldier up by the throat and pinning him to the wall. “Have you no honor? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“She insulted me. I was trying to teach the bitch a lesson!” sputtered the soldier. Cassian shoved him against the wall again and the soldier wheezed.

“Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t crush your throat right now? Or, better yet, I’ll report you to the prince and see if he has mercy on you.”

The soldier’s eyes widened in fear and he sputtered weakly.

“That’s what I thought,” Cassian growled. He released the soldier, who barely managed to stay on his feet. “Get out of here. Out of this inn. Find some other hole to crawl into. The soldier scattered and Bree heard his hasty footsteps descending the squeaky stairs as he fled.

Cassian turned to face her. “Are you all right?” he asked gently. Bree met his eyes. There was no recognition in his face, but she wasn’t surprised. She’d been a child when they’d last crossed paths.

“I’d have killed him if you hadn’t shown up,” Bree said tightly.

Cassian glanced at her clenched fist and saw the energy buzzing there. “You’ve got the Killing Power?”

She nodded.

“No Siphon?”

She held up her wrist. “The best I can do.”

“Hmm.” Cassian kept his distance as he considered her. “Do you need an outlet? Send it out the window?”

Bree flexed her fingers, but she could already feel the magic fading. “I’m fine.”

“Nice control.” Cassian nodded, impressed. “How did you ever learn to get an Illyrian soldier in a position like that?”

Bree shrugged one shoulder. “Been on my own for five years. Had to learn to survive.”

A dark understanding passed through Cassian’s eyes. Bree didn’t understand it, but it made her trust him just a little bit more. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Do you need anything else? I’m here for a few more days. Money, supplies . . . directions. Whatever I can do.”

“Thank you,” Bree said sincerely, “but I’ve got it all worked out.”

“Sounds like it,” Cassian agreed. “The offer stands regardless. Just ask for the bastard and they’ll point you in my direction.”

The bastard. That explained his reaction to the bit of her own history Bree had given him. His life had likely been very difficult, too. Cassian made to leave the room, but he paused at the door. “What’s your name, Green?”

Bree blinked at the name, but she realized he was referring to the color of her power. He gave her a soft smile of encouragement, and she cleared her throat.

“Bree. My name is Bree,” she said.

Cassian nodded. “It was an honor to meet you, Bree.”

It wasn’t until he left and shut the door behind him that Bree let herself sink to the floor in awe and exhaustion. One of the most well-known fighters in the Illyrian forces, close friends with Prince Rhysand, had complimented her.

Perhaps she wasn’t doing so bad for herself after all.


	4. The Blood Rite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Encouraged by Cassian’s words, Bree sets out to find a camp she might be able to join and enlist in the army. But her plans go awry when she accidentally encounters a group of males in a Blood Rite altercation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is for @acourtofempireandstorms, who won a prize in my 3,000-follower giveaway! The character of Bree is her OC, and she also picked the setting and plot points.

The second the weather cleared that season, Bree abandoned the inn she’d sheltered in for the winter and struck out on her own once more. In her bag she had her few supplies, as well as something extra. The morning after she’d been attacked, Bree had found a bag of money and an Illyrian dagger tucked in the shadows outside her room. Having made do with hunting knives for a long time, Bree had nearly crowed with jubilation at the sight of the dagger. When she’d asked after Cassian, however, she was told he’d been called away.

Bree was a bit embarrassed with herself for how disappointed she was to hear he was gone.

Still, it was with her iron will and intense determination that she set out into the forest that spring, planning to head south to a camp far enough away from where she’d come from that she might stand a chance at joining up in the army. After Cassian’s encouragement, she felt like she was ready to take her shot. She paused at a river after traveling for a couple of day and hacked off the hair that had grown over the winter--the Illyrian blade made the process much cleaner than it had been in the past. She traded her barmaid’s clothes for proper leggings and a tunic and bound up her chest to complete her disguise. She wore the charm the gwyllion had given her around her neck and tucked into her tunic so she wouldn’t lose it.

After a couple of weeks of traveling on her own, still unable to locate a suitable camp in which to try her luck, Bree decided to go on an extended hunt in the mountains. If she could bag a few deer, she could sell what she couldn’t eat and then use the funds to purchase more weapons, and maybe even some armor. Of course, spring wasn’t the ideal time to be hunting deer, but it was the best she could do.

Bree muttered and cursed to herself as she rigged up a treestand to set high in a beech tree. The knots and gnarls in the grey wood formed faces that glared at her, but she stuck her tongue out at them and used her wings to haul herself up into the tree. She had a bow and arrow with her, but she kept traces of her power on standby just in case it would prove more efficient. She hunkered down, hood pulled around her ears to break the chill spring air. Periodically, after checking for game, she would stretch her wings and get the blood flowing back to her fingertips.

At long last, she heard the telltale snort of a buck approach beneath her. Deer were ghostly silent usually, and in the past Bree had needed to coach herself not to blast every squirrel that rustled the leave beneath her for getting her hopes up. But today, it was definitely a buck, though he had shed his antlers already. His broad chest and the shape of his head said it all. Bree slowly rose to her feet, numb fingers readying at her bowstring. The deer stepped into her shooting lane, and she drew her arrow--

\--only to have a blast of killing power explode into the clearing and send the deer bolting off. Bree swore as the ripple of crimson magic shook the tree she perched in. She hugged the trunk with one arm, clinging to the frame of her bow with the other. She snarled and looked for the source of the magic, and then her blood ran cold.

Three Illyrians males, roughly her age, bolted into the clearing, looking like scared deer themselves. They were scrawny and pale, as though they hadn’t eaten well in ages, and their eye were wide with fear. From behind them came another blast of magic, this one gold, and a tree branch above them shattered into splinters. They cried out and ducked, and Bree’s grip on her bow tightened.

Then, from the cluster of beech trees, came a crowd of bigger, stronger looking males. The leader was smeared with blood and his hair was matted with dirt. His companions were not much better looking.

“Always knew you lot wouldn’t cut it!” taunted the leader. “Might as well be a cluster of females for all you’re worth!”

Bree’s blood boiled at that, and she hurried to assess the situation. Three weakened Illyrians, pursued by rivals . . . she bit her lip to hold in her gasp. This was the Blood Rite.

The leader of the pursuers flipped his vicious-looking knife in his hands. “So . . . which one of you wants to become a female first?”

One of the three smaller Illyrians threw his knife with blinding speed, but one of his enemies caught it mid-air and sneered. Bree shook her head--he was a fool for throwing away his weapon.

“Take me, Caolan!” called the tallest of the three weaker males. “Just leave them be to fight another day!” He shoved his two companions backward and stepped toward the leader, Caolan.

“Now what fun would that be? The more we kill, the more glory we earn. Why should I let them run off to be picked off by wild beasts? Isn’t more honorable for you all to die here and now in combat, Torin?”

“It’s not a fair fight,” Torin snapped.

Caolan and his followers cackled. “The Blood Rite isn’t about fairness. Now, submit or I might just do worse than kill you. Your sister might be able to tell you what that’s like--”

Torin roared in anger, but before he could raise his weapon, Bree fired an arrow into Caolan’s neck.

Blood spurt from his wound to the snow-flecked ground. Unable to breathe, he dropped to his knees. His healing magic was unable to keep up with the severity of the wound, and before he could right himself, Torin sent a blast of emerald killing power into Caolan’s chest, ending him on the spot.

All hell broke loose, then. The three weaker males rallied as Caolan’s crew burst forth with a thirst for revenge, but Bree was ready, too. She nocked another arrow and fire one through the wings of a brutish male who screamed like a child when the arrow tore through his membrane. One of Torin’s companions hit him across the head and he went down with a thud. Bree only had one more arrow, so she aimed it for the male who was preparing to send a blast of Killing Power at Torin. The blast went wide, striking the trunk of the tree Bree was perched it.

It groaned and swayed. Unwilling to find out if it would fall, Bree leapt from the branches and landed gracefully into the snow, readying her dagger. The attackers shouted in surprise and two of them leapt toward her. She slashed at one with her dagger and caught his arm, ducking a punch from another and skittering across the snowy ground. As she whirled around close to the ground, she sliced the hamstrings of the one who had thrown the punch. He wailed and went down. She gasped as a shadow fell over her and a sword descended toward her shoulder, but Torin’s own blade deflected it.

She didn’t have time to thank him before she saw the largest remaining attacker approaching Torin from behind. She shouted out a warning and sent her own green Killing Power to strike him, but it was too late. The knife he threw landed square between Torin’s shoulders. Blood showered down on Bree and Torin collapsed forward.

The clearing fell eerily silent for a moment. Bree’s pulse thudded in her ears, but she realized the fight was over.

“Torin!” cried one of the younger males. He scrambled over to them and turned Torin over, but it was already too late. The knife had wedged so deep and do fast that even Illyrian healing skills couldn’t keep up. The young male wept over his teammate, and Bree shifted back, trying to creep away into the trees.

“Wait!” cried Torin’s other companion. “Who are you?”

Bree didn’t look up. “No one,” she said, pitching her voice low as she was practiced at doing.

“You saved us--is this your Blood Rite, too?”

Bree only shook her head. She had to get away before they asked too many questions.

“I don’t believe it,” the male said. “There’s no way you fight like that without any training. You took out three of the strongest soldiers in our camp and you’re not even injured!”

“Four,” Bree corrected. She cursed herself silently.

“What?”

“I took out four soldiers. I counted.” She tossed her brown banggs away from her forehead. Then she glanced at Torin, who was still being held by the first male, and said, “I’m sorry about Torin. I . . . I tried.”

The second male sniffed--the first sign of emotion that he’d yet displayed. “I’m Conri,” he said. “This is Kieran. Who are you?”

“I told you,” Bree said, standing up on shaking legs, “I’m no one.” She moved to sling her bow over her shoulder and then cried out in pain--the sword Torin had defended her from had pierced her shoulder.

“Allow me,” Conri said, approaching her.

Bree hastily backed away, though whatever had coated the blade was making her dizzy. “Don’t touch me,” she said. The injury was on her branded shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Conri protested. He hurried and caught Bree’s arm when her knees gave out. “Kieran! I need the poultice!” Kieran looked up from where he was still holding Torin’s body, and Conri’s tone softened. “We’ll take care of Torin later. But he’ll die if I don’t treat him, and he saved our asses.”

Kieran swallowed and nodded before rifling in his pack. Conri began removing Bree’s tunic to get at the wound, and she thrashed against him.

“Hold still, damn it!” he snarled, but when he pulled the collar of her tunic back he let out a long string of curse words. “You’re female?”

“A female?” Kieran asked, his curiosity piqued. “How didn’t we smell it?”

“Gwyllion,” was all Bree could choke out. “Please . . . please don’t hurt me.” She tasted bile in her throat at the need to beg, but she was in no position to fight herself out of this position as she had last winter. Her limbs were numb and her vision was blurring.

“Cauldron, we won’t hurt you,” Conri murmured. He applied the poultice to the injury and Bree shuddered at the chill. “Kieran,” Conri said softly, “we’ve got to move on from here. Not far. But we can’t be spotted far from here. Mark the fallen and then we’ll go.”

“Are we taking her with us?”

“Well, we can’t just leave her here.”

“My camp,” Bree rasped. “It’s down the mountains, two leagues. I have . . . shelter.”

“That’ll do,” Conri agreed. He lifted Bree up in his arms, and Bree realized he wasn’t as small as he’d seemed from the tree. As he hiked down the mountain trail, the swaying of the body and the side effects of the poultice lulled her into an uneasy sleep.

-

Bree woke up in her own shelter on her own cot. She blinked away the haze and saw Conri sitting up a tree stump nearby, watching her with concentration. His dark brows were knitted and he rested a knuckle against his chin. When he saw she was awake, he said, “I can’t figure you out.”

Bree opened her mouth to retort but found her mouth dry. Conri offered her water and she accepted. “There’s no use wasting your effort in it,” she said. “It’s best for me if no one figures me out.”

Conri shrugged a shoulder. “If I were you, I’d feel the same. Why disguise yourself as male, though? Why go through the trouble of getting a charm from a gwyllion?” He jabbed his finger toward the charm around her neck.

“You think I’d survive in this world on my own as a female?” Bree snapped. “I’ve seen plenty of what your lot does to us. It’s safer for me this way.”

To her surprise, Conri flinched and nodded. “Understood. But did you really plan to live out here on your own for the rest of your life?”

“So what if I did?” Bree said. Conri just lifted his eyebrow and waited. Bree shook her head and shifted into a sitting position on the cot. “You’ll laugh at me.” And after all she’d been through, Bree wasn’t sure she could handle his scorn.

“I’ve been laughed at plenty, myself,” Conri said. “I won’t treat you the same.” Bree frowned, but the assurance sounded sincere.

“I was hoping to find a friendly camp where I could enlist. Fight in the war. And end up somewhere entirely different from this place. Where I could be free.”

Conri nodded and scratched his patchy brown beard. His light brown eyes sparked. “That’s not funny--that’s downright impressive. Especially since you have the Killing Power.”

Bree just nodded.

Conri drew and breath and seemed to hesitate. Bree lifted her gaze to him. “Kieran and I were talking while you slept.”

“Oh?”

“You saved our asses out there. We’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. And this Blood Rite still isn’t over. We . . . we would be a lot better off if you joined us, especially now that Torin is . . .”

Bree let out an astonished laugh. “Me? Join the Blood Rite? I don’t even have a proper Siphon! I’ll be killed for even daring to try, no matter my gender.”

“Not if you take Torin’s place.”

Bree’s eyebrows shot up.

“Your Killing Power is the same color as his. Maybe his Siphon will work for you. And . . . you look something alike. It isn’t perfect, but we were never the ones most of the camp leaders paid attention to. If we survive and get back, you can join us in his place--be a soldier, join the war with us . . .”

Bree’s stomach clenched. This had to be some sort of trick. Conri was offering her everything she’d ever wanted on a platter. All she needed to do was use a new name. “Does Torin have . . . family? Or connections of any kind?” She could stomach the deception for herself and for camp leaders, but she wasn’t sure she could deal with family.

“He has a sister. But she’s been sent off in marriage, and they’ve already said their goodbyes. Talulla doesn’t expect to see him again.”

Bree sucked in a breath through her nose as memories of Emer washed over her.

Survive, Emer had begged her. She had done what Emer had asked--heeded her sister’s dying words. She had survived.

But maybe now was the time to live.

Bree met Conri’s brown eyes with her hazel ones. “My identity remains a secret.”

Conri nodded. “I swear on the Cauldron. Kieran will, too, when he comes back.”

Bree felt the power crackling at her knuckles. “Then I accept.”


	5. Mixed Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After five years as Torin, Bree and her fellow soldiers are seeing the possible end to the War. But despite her accomplishments in battle, a meeting with Cassian, Mor, and other fighters goes wrong when a ghost from Bree’s past appears to destroy everything.

 

 

 

_Five Years Later_

The War was raging.

It was everything Bree had ever hoped it would be, and far more than she’d ever prepared for. She, Conri, and Kieran had all survived the Blood Rite together, but even those difficult weeks were child’s play compared to life on the battlefield. But Bree was a fast learner. She’d had to be. As they’d hiked through the Illyrian Steppes trying to survive, Conri and Kieran had told her everything they could about who Torin had been and what he was known for. It seemed to be cathartic for them as well as informative for Bree. Then, when they’d officially made it through, they’d returned to camp to stunned celebration--apparently no one had expected them to survive.

After returning from a recent campaign--one in which more blood had been shed than she’d imagined possible--Bree sat alone in her tent, admiring the tattoos upon her arms. They were the proudest mark she bore, a sign that she’d truly made it. It had taken a bit of manipulation to keep her identity concealed in the process of getting them--Conri had volunteered to do it, despite the tradition stating that older males were usually responsible for the task. But they’d made a case before Lord Devlon, the camp leader who was only slightly less ghastly than other camp lords Bree had met in the past, and Conri had been allowed to mark his new friend and ally and keep her identity hidden from the rest of the soldiers.

Bree flexed her fingers and rotated her neck, savoring the release of tension it brought. They had just returned from battle, and Bree hadn’t slept well since they’d returned. The fight had taken them to the east coast of Prythian, adjacent to the channel that separated them from the continent. Bree had almost cried when she saw the beautiful, stony coastline of the Autumn Court, where they’d done battle with a legion from Hybern and their allies from the Black Lands. She’d never been anywhere but the Steppes before the War. She’d since seen the jungles of the Dawn Court and the meadows of Spring, but the colorful forests and gray-blue waters of the Autumn coastline were so new to her that she wanted to praise the Mother at the sight of it. Still, for her own safety, she had concealed her emotions and fallen into line like an obedient soldier. She had survived this long by keeping her head down--she wasn’t about to push her luck.

“Torin!” called Kieran from outside their tent.

Bree hastily shoved her charm down the front of her tunic and shrugged on her large coat, which kept her frame obscured. It was bad enough that she was smaller than the other Illyrians--she didn’t want her waist-to-hip ratio giving anything away, either. Kieran knew the truth, of course, but she’d gotten into the habit of maintaining her disguise at all times. Indeed, the name Bree was so distant to her ears that she doubted she would even respond if called by it.

“What?” she snapped.

Kieran’s tousled head appeared through the tent flap. “Devlon wants you to join the emissary to meet with the human forces.”

“What?” she said again, incredulous.

“Do you know any other words?” Kieran asked, rolling his eyes.

Bree muttered to herself as she stood and started to gather her things. Devlon didn’t like to be kept waiting. “Why in the Cauldron’s name does he want me to go?”

“Beats me. You’re not exactly charming.” Bree snarled at him, but he just laughed. “You’re the smallest. One of the less intimidating ones.”

“Oh. Great,” Bree grumbled.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’ll have good company.”

“I hope you don’t mean you.”

Kieran flinched at the well-placed jibe, but said, “Unfortunately for you, no. But Cassian has arrived on behalf of the High Lord to coordinate with Devlon, and he’s going along.”

“ _The_ Cassian?” Bree gasped.

“Bet your Bogge,” Kieran said. “Now, hurry your ass up or you’ll be stuck on latrine duty.”

Bree grimaced and hurried out of the tent, playfully knocking Kieran aside. She hurried to the front of the camp, where Devlon waited, strapping on her two Siphons as she went. It was somewhat of an anomaly for an Illyrian of her size and age to need two, but it had become clear not long after they’d arrived in camp that Torin’s single Siphon was not doing enough to control her power. It had been a massive relief to Bree to have them--it felt like releasing a clenched fist when she no longer had to focus so hard on controlling her power with nothing more than the bracelet of Siphon shards. She had kept the bracelet and still wore it under her gauntlets, though it did nothing to affect her power anymore.

She came to a stop at the head of the camp and fell to attention in front of Devlon and--to Bree’s awe--Cassian. He was almost the same as she remembered, except for the war-weariness in his eyes that most Illyrians had after nearly seven straight years of fighting with little reprieve. They all knew it could be worse, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get tired.

Bree’s eyes widened slightly when she saw that there was another figure standing beside Cassian--a tall, statuesque High Fae female with long, golden blonde hair braided down her back. She stood beside Cassian, too close to be a stranger and too distant to be a partner. Her dark brown eyes fell upon Bree and, for some inexplicable reason, Bree suddenly felt naked beneath her gaze.

“Who is this?” Cassian asked Devlon, drawing Bree’s attention away from the High Fae female.

“He’s called Torin. He’s a bastard, not unlike yourself,” Devlon grunted. Bree’s upper lip lifted in a tiny snarl, but not enough to get her in trouble. “He’s our scrawniest, so if we don’t want to scare the humans, he’s the one we send out first.”

“I doubt you’ll be able to scare these humans,” said the female, her smile wry. “Besides, he has two Siphons. Even humans know what that means.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lady Morrigan,” growled Devlon. Bree’s throat tightened. _The_ Morrigan? “You’re here as a favor to the High Lord. I didn’t want you here. Watch, but do not interfere. Though I have my doubts you’ll be able to resist.”

Cassian’s blade was out and near Devlon’s throat before Bree could even flinch. “Do not speak to her like that,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly. “Or else I’ll be the one taking over this camp while the Autumn Court wolves pick the flesh from your decapitated corpse.”

A thrill ran through Bree’s blood at the threat, but Devlon merely sneered.

“Now, now, let’s not spill blood in front of the youngling,” Morrigan tsked.

Bree’s wings flared. “I am not a youngling,” she snapped. “And I’ve seen my fair share of bloodshed. And spilled plenty on my own.”

Morrigan’s dark eyes looked Bree up and down. “You’re right. You’re not a youngling. You’re . . . something else entirely.” Her eyes sparked and she grinned. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Then she whirled and strode out of the camp like she owned it. Lord Devlon followed, ad Bree fell into step beside Cassian.

“You leading your own men?” Bree asked, striking up what she hoped was a casual conversation to avoid the awkwardness she felt around him. She hadn’t been prepared for the effect that seeing him would have on her. All she could think about when she looked at him was the look on his face after he’d defend her in that lousy inn all those years ago, and the warm feeling he’d left her with after complimenting her ability to defend herself. He wouldn’t even believe it if she told him who she was. Not that she’d ever risk exposing her identity.

Cassian grunted. “Of course not. I’m a bastard, remember?” He looked sideways at her. “You know the rules for our kind.”

Bree’s shoulders tensed. “But you’re one of the most powerful Illyrians alive,” she said.

“Which is why they don’t want to give me command of a force that I could turn against the High Lord if I ever decided I was sick of the shit they put us through.”

“But you’re friends with Prince Rhysand . . .”

Cassian’s nostrils flared. “Exactly.”

The pieces fell into place in Bree’s mind and she said, “Oh.”

“I know Devlon,” Cassian said, changing the subject, “and he doesn’t pick just anybody for meetings like this. He’s not worried about scaring the humans. He knows better than that by now. So why did he pick you?”

Bree was about to say that she didn’t know, but she said, “I’m still alive. I guess that’s something. No one thought I’d survive this long.” She paused as she thought through the events of the past several years. “I took over a stealth maneuver in the Dawn Court after our leader got taken out by a poisonous lesser fae. The mission was a success.”

“Wait, I heard about that,” Cassian said. “The Tigress Maneuver? That was you?”

Bree shrugged one shoulder.

Cassian laughed heartily. “That was written off as a total failure, and then all of a sudden these scrawny Illyrians appear out of the jungle like ghosts with their enemies’ weapons in arm, having completely disabled the opposing force? With no other loss of life? That story was being told around campfires all over Prythian!”

Bree’s face warmed. “It was?”

Cassian nodded, still grinning. “They gave the credit to Devlon, of course--credit always goes to the camp leaders--but that was an accomplishment. The legion you disabled would have moved on Summer and Hybern would have had them cornered from all sides. You saved them.”

Bree let out a disbelieving laugh. “They never put it that way to us. It was just another day in the War for us.”

Cassian nodded. “I know what you mean.” He sighed. “The High Lord has me as a foot soldier, separate from both Azriel and Prince Rhysand. Can’t say I blame him, with our reputation. But it sucks balls to have to answer to camp lords who couldn’t beat me in an arm-wrestling match. I was sent here as a representative for our brigade, and only because I’ve met Prince Drakon before.”

Just then, they arrived at the designated place of meeting. There were several colorful tents set up, but the ground was trampled with the footprints of soldiers rushing around. It smelled, in a way not unlike the Illyrian camp smelled, but with a distinctive human odor. But there were many other scents mixed in, too--scents of other faeries, not Illyrians. It was all a bit overwhelming at first, but Bree adjusted after a few moments.

When their arrival had been announced, the main tent flaps opened and several figures emerged. One was a tall, dark-skinned faerie with the most beautiful wings Bree had ever seen. They were gold and feathered like an eagle’s, and they matched the armor that the faerie wore. He had three long scars on the side of his neck, but he walked with a noble dignity that Bree had only ever seen High Fae use. Beside him was a much smaller figure, also clad in armor. She was also brown-skinned and had chestnut-colored hair with red streaks from the sun. Dark brown eyes filled with tears as she saw Morrigan. To Bree’s surprise, she raced across the space between them and fell into Morrigan’s arms, crying.

Bree tried not to stare, but after the woman cried for a moment and Morrigan soothed her, the two females separated and the crying one said, “He’s been taken, Morrigan. For what he did. Amarantha has him.” There was a line of steel in the woman’s words, and Bree suspected that this news was not why she had been crying.

Morrigan’s face went pale. “We all saw this coming,” she said in a low voice, and the other woman nodded miserably. She returned to the side of the golden-winged male, who laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

“What’s this all about?” Devlon demanded.

The golden-winged male straightened. “I am Prince Drakon of Ellada, and this is Miryam, Healer of the Black Lands. Beside me are my fellow commanders. Though our initial meeting was intended to coordinate our forces, new information has come to light. Have you heard of the demise of Clythia?”

Bree shook her head and Devlon grunted no. With the cool countenance of a battle-hardened warrior, Drakon related the crucifixion of Clythia, the sister of the Hybernian general Amarantha, at the hands of the human general Jurian. Bree’s stomach turned as she heard the details--the gruesome facts of it were not what disturbed her, but the similarity of what Clythia had suffered to what she’d seen Emer go through ten years ago now. She worked hard to keep her composure, but she felt like she wanted to vomit.

“Amarantha has exacted her revenge on Jurian by capturing him,” Drakon concluded. “She’s had him for a week, but we doubt she’s killed him yet.”

Morrigan cleared her throat and said, “The High Lord of the Night Court sees this as an opportunity to thwart Amarantha, who is Hybern’s last remaining general at full power. If we can take advantage of her distraction with Jurian to attack, we may be able to reclaim Jurian and move this war to a conclusion.”

“Ah, but it’s been so much fun, hasn’t it?”

Another voice joined the group and Bree’s blood turned to ice in her veins. That voice . . . she never thought she’d hear that voice again!

A brutal-looking Illyrian joined the group, the tell-tale scar across his face as familiar as it had been the night he’d come to claim Bree and make her his wife. His property. What he’d done to her, done to Emer . . . Bree had sworn she would never forget his face. Never forget his name.

Lord Fearghas.

“Fearghas,” Devlon sneered. “I thought you were supposed to be off slaughtering in the Winter Court.”

“I was,” Fearghas said casually, flicking dried blood out from under his fingernails, “but the High Lord wanted me in on this little meeting. He wants me to head up the Illyrian forces we send across the Channel to Amarantha.”

“I thought I was--” Devlon spluttered.

“How quaint. A second-rate camp lord thought he’d lead one of the most important campaigns of the war so far.” Fearghas chuckled. “You’ll report to me, Devlon. As will your--” Fearghas’s eyes looked over Cassian and then fell on Bree, causing his words to stop short. “Mother’s tits,” he said. “I had heard the stories, but I didn’t believe them.”

“What are you going on about, Fearghas?” Cassian demanded.

Bree had never been more terrified of a smile in her life than she was when Lord Fearghas looked her dead in the eyes and grinned. “It’s my little bride, playing soldier like she’s worth the dirt caked on my shoe.”

“I don’t know if your eyes are going,” Devlon said, “but this is clearly a male--a tiny one, but still male. His name’s Torin and he’s been with my legion since he was a youngling.”

“You’re as stupid as you look, Devlon,” Fearghas sighed.

“Listen, if he was female, don’t you think we’d be able to smell it?” Cassian said.

“Yes, you’d think so. But she’s a wickedly clever one. I tracked her scent into the woods after her sister’s wing-clipping went wrong and she unleashed that lovely emerald power . . . but I lost it after a while. Only then, I stumbled upon a gwyllion with a very interesting story to tell. About a female, and a particular amulet she requested. If she wears it, it disguises her scent.”

“You sound like a madman,” Cassian spat. He looked at Morrigan, but her face was grave. Then Bree understood. The Morrigan . . . she was supposed to have the gift of Truth. She knew Bree’s identity. She’d likely known it the moment she’d laid eyes on her.

“It’s easy enough to prove,” Fearghas said with a shrug. “If this . . . _person_ is wearing the amulet, then I’m right, and I still reserve the right to claim her as my bride. If not, then no harm done.”

“You’re wasting all of our time,” Prince Drakon growled. “What does it matter if the soldier is male or female? He’s here because he’s proved himself in battle. That’s why we wanted him here.”

“You’re not Illyrian,” Fearghas said sharply. “It is a dishonor to allow a female to fight. Would you dishonor your allies by forcing them to fight alongside a female?”

Drakon said nothing, but he shared a meaningful look with Miryam.

“Come on now,” Fearghas said, prowling toward Bree. “Show us the amulet.”

He reached out for Bree’s throat, but before she even made the decision to do it, she threw up a shield made of her emerald power and rebuffed him. “Stay. _Away_. From. Me,” she growled. The first words she had spoken since Fearghas had arrived.

“Why? Do you have something to hide?” Fearghas laughed in wicked delight.

Morrigan shifted closer to Cassian, laying a hand on his arm, before approach Fearghas. “I’ll do it,” she offered. “I have the gift of Truth, after all. You can trust my word.”

Fearghas snarled, but Miryam said, “She can be trusted.”

“Torin,” Cassian said in a low, gentle voice. “Let Morrigan close to you. It’s important that we get this sorted.”

Bree was shaking under her armor, but she looked into the brown eyes of the Morrigan and felt a sense of trust she hadn’t expected to feel. She let down her shield, and Morrigan stepped directly in front of her. Her tall frame blocked Fearghas from Bree’s view, and Bree from his. She slowly untied the armor and tunic at Bree’s throat. She made no reaction when she saw the amulet hanging around Bree’s neck, but she slowly pulled it over Bree’s head.

Bree flinched the moment the amulet was gone and her scent was no longer obscured. Devlon swore and Fearghas laughed in wicked delight. Morrigan did not move away from Bree. “Look at me,” she murmured. Bree obeyed. She wanted to run, to fly, but she felt like she’d been turned to stone as her secret had been revealed after ten long years.

“She was promised to me by Lord Bradach,” Fearghas said. “It’s not too late to clip her wings and send her back to the Steppes where she belongs. She can wait there for me until this blasted fight is over. I’ll need someone to warm my bed, after all.”

“You’re a vile bastard,” Cassian snarled, though his eyes were still wide in surprise and his nostrils flared.

“This soldier is female,” Morrigan said, “but she is now under the protection of Morrigan, Princess of the Night Court, and Aerona, Lady of the Night Court. She shall not be returning to the Steppes.”

Over Morrigan’s shoulder, Bree saw Fearghas lunge forward. “But it’s my right--”

“Hold on,” Morrigan whispered.

Before Fearghas could so much as lay a finger on them, Morrigan winnowed them into thin air.


	6. The Lady of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mor and Cassian recruit Bree on a very important rescue mission, promising her safety and freedom as long as she can help them get their friend back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a violence warning for this chapter, so be aware. Also, it’s the final chapter! Thanks so much for being patient with this fic, but I think this last chapter will be worth the wait!

 

The world twisted and turned around Bree and Morrigan--Bree felt her heels go over her head and thought for sure she was being contorted in all the wrong ways. When the turning finally stopped, she staggered away from Morrigan and immediately vomited as the nausea overcame her.

“Poor thing,” Morrigan clucked, vanishing the mess before it even had a chance to stink. Bree sank trembling to her knees.

“Not everyone’s winnowed before,” Cassian reminded his friend.

Bree accepted the glass of water Morrigan offered her with a shaking hand, and she took deep, rattling breaths as the world settled around her. “Where . . . where am I?” she asked.

“Back in the Night Court,” Morrigan said. Bree stiffened. “Only temporarily, I assure you.” She lifted Bree by the elbow and led her to a cabin nestled in the summer grasses of a mountain meadow.

“You’re going to catch hell for this,” Cassian said, and Bree wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Morrigan.

“I know,” they responded in unison. Cassian just shook his head.

“Why here?” he asked. “What’s going through your head?” He sounded both frustrated and relieved, and Bree understood. Once they were inside the cabin, Morrigan led her to sit down on a couch more comfortable than Bree had ever known in her life. She feared she was about to sink in so deep she wouldn’t be able to stand up again. But it was designed to accommodate Illyrian wings, so . . . perhaps this place wasn’t entirely bad. She took stock of it with her sense of smell; Cassian and Mor were all over it, but there were two other distinct scents that belonged to neither of them. At least one was also Illyrian.

“I couldn’t exactly let Fearghas take her now, could I?” Morrigan asked, and there was something fearsome in the way she bore her teeth as she spoke. Indeed, her whole demeanor was frantic, and she paced about the room even as Cassian sat across from Bree.

“I recognize you now,” he said in his warm voice. “You were in that inn once, weren’t you?”

Bree rifled in her baldric and pulled out the dagger she had left him. “I still have the knife you gave me. Really came in handy.”

“I’m not sure what to make of you,” Cassian admitted. “I always knew there was something fucked with the way we treated our females.”

“No shit,” Mor spat from where she paced near the hearth. Cassian glared at her. When he saw tears in her eyes, he stood up and crossed the room to her.

“Mor,” he said softly, setting a hand on her shoulder. “What is it? Was it being in Autumn again?”

“No,” she said bitterly, and Bree felt like she shouldn’t be listening to this. “That didn’t help though. Cass . . . she has Rhys.”

Bree flinched as Cassian’s wings suddenly flared and his red Siphons glowed. “ _What?_ ” he demanded.

Mor nodded, her lips thin and pale. “Azriel just told me. Risked his neck to do it. The High Lord didn’t want any of us knowing.”

“Why the hell not?” Cassian snarled.

“Because, he knew what we’d do . . . what we’re _going_ to do.” Mor’s eyes flashed and she turned to look at Bree. “You led the Tigress Maneuver, didn’t you?”

Bree nodded mutely.

“If there’s a big enough distraction, do you think you could help us sneak in to make a rescue?”

Bree blinked as she pieced together the bits of information she’d gathered. “You . . . you want me to help you rescue Prince Rhysand?”

Mor inhaled deeply through her nose. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“Why me?” Bree asked, her voice coming more easily now. Despite what Morrigan was asking of her, she did not feel threatened by the High Fae female. She had helped Bree escape Fearghas, after all. “I’m not a half-bad soldier, but why would you trust me with this?”

“I see Truth,” Morrigan said solemnly. “I knew what you were the moment I set eyes on you. And I have a sense that you fight to protect . . . for vengeance. Something to do with Fearghas, I imagine.”

Bree’s hackles rose. “He helped kill my sister,” she said through gritted teeth.

“So you know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” Mor said, her words quick and her voice hard as she braced her arms on the edge of the couch and leaned toward Bree. “Prince Rhysand . . .” She paused and drew in a deep breath again. “He is one of the very few people who ever gave a damn about me. Who offered me freedom. I can’t lose him--not like this. And if I’m reading you right, you know what it’s like to lose that kind of person. Please, don’t let it happen again to someone I love.”

Bree’s chest burned at the ferocity in Morrigan’s eyes. She _did_ know. Emer had been that for her--had been the person who cared for Bree when they’d both been nearly alone in the world. She wouldn’t be where she was without Emer--she wouldn’t be free without Emer. And she could tell that Prince Rhysand was Morrigan’s Emer.

“I’ll help you,” Bree agreed. “On one condition.”

Cassian barked a laugh as Mor straightened in surprise. “Oh?”

“I get my amulet back. We do this, and I’m allowed to go free, with my amulet, to settle wherever I please. I’m done being beholden to other people and having to hide just to survive.”

Mor gave an impressed smirk that turned into a smile. “Well said. Fine then--agreed. You help us save the prince, and your life is yours for the rest of eternity.”

Bree let out a long breath. _Freedom_ \--true freedom. She could taste it. Standing to join Mor and Cassian by the fire, she folded her arms over her chest and said, “Excellent. So what do we need to do?”

-

The three spent the next two days turning over plan after plan. Each morning, Mor would leave to winnow further into the mountains where she would meet with the High Lord’s shadowsinger, Azriel, to learn more details about the attack that the High Lord would be launching.

“We’ll use that as our cover,” Cassian said. “While all the chaos is happening, we can get in to grab Rhys--winnow him out of there before the fighting is even over.”

“Do you think this will end the war?” Bree asked.

“That’s the hope, according to Azriel,” Mor said. “Amarantha is the last general standing, but she’s powerful. It’ll be one hell of a fight.”

“Does Caradoc know we bailed on Miryam and Drakon?” Cassian asked Mor.

“It’s unclear. Miryam and Drakon wouldn’t have said anything. I wrote her to tell her, and she wouldn’t betray us. Devlon might be too embarrassed. Fearghas, though . . .”

“Even if Fearghas did tell the High Lord, do you think he’d stop of from trying to save Rhys?” Cassian asked.

Mor was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. I’d like to think not . . . but we know he’s afraid of Rhys’s power. If Rhys were his only heir, I don’t think he’d have waited this long to launch an attack, but since there’s Aderyn, and she’s not quite as strong . . .”

“Is she all right?” Cassian asked. “Does she know?”

“I told Azriel not to say anything to her, but I don’t think he would have,” Mor said. “She fears for him, of course, but she doesn’t know he’s been taken.”

Bree flexed her jaw and ran her hand through her short hair. “I don’t know much about the way the court is run,” she said, “but if what I’ve gathered is right, saving the prince saves Aderyn, too. If she’s the only heir . . . well, there’s not a good chance she’ll become High Lady, is there? And if she can’t rule in her own right, then . . . let’s just say I know what it’s like to be married off to the most eligible suitor.”

Fire burned in Mor’s brown eyes. “So do I.” She cursed under her breath. “We’d better make this plan solid, then.”

Bree looked over their diagram and gave a terse nod. “I think it is.”

-

In the middle of the night, Morrigan winnowed both Cassian and Bree to the location of Amarantha’s troops. Bree was ready for the strange sensation this time, and though her stomach still turned, she did not vomit as she had the first time. Mor had chosen a location a few miles from the actual encampment--far enough away that they’d be able to successfully sneak in.

“Remember--when you’ve found him, signal with your Siphon for Azriel,” Mor said to Bree, her voice a low whisper. “He’ll help fly him back--I doubt Rhys will be able to winnow, and I need to focus on keeping eyes away from you. Cassian and Azriel will carry him. You just keep a perimeter around them.”

“Understood,” Bree said.

Mor clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for doing this. Good luck.”

Bree sucked in a breath as Mor darted away across the ashen plains of the battlefield. They were on the Continent . . . so far from the cabin that was to be their final destination. This was the biggest risk Bree had ever taken, but she had lived a life of risk. And she would do it. Emer would want her to do it.

She wore her amulet to hide her scent again--a female Illyrian’s scent would be out of place on the battlefield and would draw attention to them. Covered in her armor and her vast array of knives--some provided by Mor and Cassian--she snuck across the battlefield to a copse of trees where Cassian said he detected Rhys’s scent.

In the distance, drums beat. The battle was beginning.

Bree and Cassian were shadows in the air as they crept toward the trees. Amarantha’s army was beginning to stir, and Bree could hear the pounding of Illyrian wings approaching from the west. A dark shadow loomed on the horizon, and she knew that it was High Lord Caradoc’s avenging army.

She paused behind a gnarled willow tree and watched the front guard hastily line up to face the coming enemy. A whistle pierced the air, and Bree’s heart stuttered as all at once, flaming arrows appeared in the dark and wiped out the first several rows of low-ranking soldiers. Their cries pierced the silence of pre-dawn.

Then all hell broke loose.

Cassian motioned for her to follow him, and they sifted through the trees, closer and closer to the prince’s scent. The hair on Bree’s neck rose as she heard hoarse pants of agony. She prayed to the Mother that it wasn’t the prince, but . . . as they came around the tree trunk, she saw it was worse.

Bile rose in the back of her throat as she saw the raw, mangled body of what had once been the human general Jurian. Most of his skin had been flayed, bones broken . . . blood was scattered around the torturer’s table like a bucket of paint had been spilled. The body still ached and groaned, blue eyes staring unseeing at the sky. Bree had seen her fair share of blood and gore, but this . . . it was something else.

Circling around the table was an armored woman whose flaming red hair was a beacon against the dark and gloomy morning. Her pale face was wild with vengeance, her focus trained solely on the body she was tormenting. She never even glanced toward the two trees from which Prince Rhysand was hung. Bree motioned silently to Cassian and he nodded.

“General Amarantha!” cried a terrible, sibilant voice. Bree’s head snapped around to see an Attor approaching through the air. Bree had killed plenty so far in the war, and she would happily kill more. Vile creatures. “The enemy is attacking, at least three armies strong!”

“ _What?_ ” Amarantha shrieked as she whirled around, the bloody knife still in her hands. “They’re here for you,” she said to the flayed body on the table. “Seems your little human whore might have cared for you after all. How tragic.” Then, without breaking stride, she swung her knife upward and then plunged it into Jurian’s face, creating a geyser of blood and wrenching one last tormented scream from the human general. Bree gagged, but the moment Amarantha whirled around to take command of her troops, she and Cassian looped around to where Prince Rhysand hung.

The prince’s body was limp, but his eyes were bright and alert as he heard the Illyrian drums in the distance. As Bree and Cassian drew close, his head jerked up. “Cassian?” he sad hoarsely.

Cassian circled in front of him and began to saw at the ash stakes in his wings. “Good to see you, prick.”

“Took you long enough,” Rhysand said with a rasping chuckle. He let out a colorful string of curses as Cassian bumped his injured wings.

“We’ll have to leave the stakes in for now--we’ll get them all the way out once we’ve landed.”

“Not a chance I’m leaving here until I see that bitch dead,” Rhysand said with gritted teeth. “I’m going to kill her myself.”

“Like hell,” Cassian said. “You can’t fly, you can’t use magic, and she’s probably been starving you. You can’t fight.”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

“I can, and easily.” Cassian grunted as he severed the second spike from the hard-packed earth. “Now, Bree,” he said.

Bree sent a green beacon up into the air with her Siphon, and she counted her breaths until there was a crackling in the air and Azriel appeared beside them.

Rhysand huffed a laugh. “My father is going to be _pissed_.”

“That’s his problem,” Azriel said, helping Cassian lift Rhysand between them. The prince’s wings hung limply behind him and his lips were thin as he tried to hide the pain. “Is this her?” Azriel asked Cassian, jerking his chin at Bree.

“Bree,” Cassian confirmed.

“You have us covered?” Azriel asked her.

“I’ll work the shield so you can focus on flying,” Bree said. “We’re headed south, and Morrigan will meet us there.”

Azriel nodded and didn’t hesitate before spreading his wings with Cassian and lifting the prince in the air between them. Bree had seen such a maneuver done, but the one time she had tried to do it herself had been a clumsy mess. That was why she had always been put on reconnaissance or stealth missions. She wasn’t much good for the heavy-lifting part of search and rescue. As soon as Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys were in the air, Bree tapped her Siphons and set a green shield up around them before taking off herself, flying below them in slow circles to watch for enemies. Every so often she would circle wider, but she never strayed too far from the prince and his companions.

Below, she could see the battle raging. Humans, Illyrians, High Fae, and lesser fae alike went head-to-head in a bloody onslaught--everyone knew it was to be the last fight of the war. She saw thee Illyrians pull familiar formations, and she kept an eye out below for any approaching enemies.

She forgot to look above.

Bree’s breath left her body in a _whoosh_ as something collided with her from above. Down, down, down, she plummeted until she was able to get out from under the massive thing that had pummeled her. She was about to slip away when a hand wrapped around her ankle and jerked her down to the earth. She smacked onto the hard earth on her chest and scraped her chin on the ground. Gravel forced its way into her mouth and she tasted blood and dirt.

“You little _bitch_ , showing up here!”

Bree’s blood curdled as she looked over her shoulder to see Lord Fearghas clinging to her leg. “Let go of me!” she spat, though her words were muddled by the blood in her mouth. She spat onto the ground and jerked away, snapping her wing towards his face.

He gripped her wing with his other hand and she snarled, aiming her heavy boot towards his face. “I should have just killed you,” he growled. “But it would feel so _good_ to tame you. I’ll do it yet!” He released her leg to grab a knife, and he extended it towards her wing. “If only you’d been nice and easy like your sister.”

Bree shrieked as Fearghas’s knife approached her wing, but she hadn’t trained five years in the Illyrian army to go down without a fight. She twisted her body around as much as she could, curled her legs back, and then thrust them both straight toward Fearghas’s face. The crunch of his nose breaking beneath her boots was the most satisfying thing she had ever experienced, but she took advantage of the moment of distraction to lunge toward him and pin him to the ground. But his wings were strong and one jerk of them sent Bree rolling.

She felt Fearghas looming over him and she reached for the knife Cassian had given her. She feared she would be too late--she already felt the blade descending toward her membrane, when--

“ _Halt!_ ”

A clear, cold female voice echoed through the air over them. Bree gasped for breath as she felt Fearghas stumble back from her. “L-Lady Aerona!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

Bree looked up with tear-stained eyes and saw a radiant woman with sleek black hair whipping in the stormy air around her. Her skin was a light brown, her eyes and brows were elegantly sculpted, and her silver eyes were filled with a fury Bree had never seen except in her own heart.

“You still underestimate me, Fearghas,” Lady Aerona said. “You think I don’t have my sources? We have a Shadowsinger, after all. You think he doesn’t know that you planned to betray us?”

Bree’s heart clenched as she pushed herself to her knees with effort. Her body ached everywhere, but the pain was dim in the face of the power of the Lady of the Night Court. Behind her, Azriel and Cassian touched down, Prince Rhysand still propped between them. The emerald shield still flickered around them, and Bree was impressed with herself that she’d been able to keep it up even while under attack.

“You have no proof,” Fearghas sneered.

“We have just seen you attacking one of your fellow soldiers,” Lady Aerona said, her eyes briefly flicking to Bree, who trembled. “That is betrayal enough. Not to mention the secret orders you’ve given your men.”

“Who’s to believe two females and two bastards?” Fearghas demanded. Bree’s eyes widened as she saw Fearghas’s three Siphons start to glow orange. “It’s easy enough to silence you.”

“Mother!” Prince Rhysand cried as Fearghas’s Killing Power burst forth.

Lady Aerona didn’t even so much as flinch as three Illyrian shields--red, blue, and green--were erected before her . . . and as Fearghas was restrained at all limbs by ribbons of Night.

“What in the boiling, blistering Cauldron is going on here?” High Lord Caradoc demanded, looking over the scene. Bree dropped to her knees in a bow on instinct as the High Fae male took a step forward. “Aerona, what are you doing here?”

“I came to stop a traitor, since you seemed to have little interest in doing it yourself,” Lady Aerona said. “And to help our _son_ , since you seemed to have little interest in his rescue, either.”

Lord Caradoc looked to the three Illyrian males. “Did I give you permission to undergo a rescue mission?” he asked Cassian and Azriel, his voice slithering over Bree’s bones like vipers.

Cassian and Azriel did not answer.

“I approved it,” Lady Aerona said, and Bree’s eyes snapped to her. Mor hadn’t said anything about the Lady’s approval. Was . . . was Lady Aerona lying to her mate? To the High Lord?

“You are not High Lady, Aerona!” Lord Caradoc snapped.

“As you take such pleasure in reminding me!” Aerona returned. “It’s fortunate I did come, though, since Fearghas here was attempting to clip the wings of a fellow soldier.”

High Lord Caradoc turned his seething gaze to Fearghas, who was still bound in shadow. “And why would you do that, Fearghas?”

“Because she’s female!” he barked, spittle flying from his mouth. “Females get clipped!”

Caradoc froze, his nostrils flaring. Reluctantly, he drew his gaze back toward his mate, who simply gave a smug smile. Then he turned back to Fearghas and said, “I always knew your thoughts were vile. Always preferred to stay out of them. But your walls are surprisingly weak under pressure.” He clicked his tongue. “Thank you for your service.”

Magic stirred in the air, but Lady Aerona said, “Wait. Don’t mist him.”

Caradoc raised an eyebrow.

“Let her do it.” She gestured at Bree.

Caradoc opened his mouth to argue, but Aerona stared him down. “Very well. Though I don’t care for messiness. I’ll keep him bound.”

“Is it honorable to kill a bound opponent?” Lady Aerona’s question was directed at Bree. Caradoc would not have cared, but as an Illyrian . . . it was a valid question.

Bree considered for a moment. “He helped kill my sister. He’s committed treason. He has tangled himself in his own snare, and deserves no honorable death.”

Lady Aerona gave a single nod. “Very well, then.”

Bree took a limping step toward Fearghas, who looked down at her with disdain. “You think you can kill me, girl?”

“You still underestimate me,” Bree murmured. Without warning, she slashed at each of his wings, tearing the membrane open wide. Cassian cursed behind her. Then, as Fearghas’s screams died down, she said to him, “This is for Emer. May she be avenged.” Bree slowly drew the edge of the blade Cassian had given her across Fearghas’s throat, opened a bright flow of blood too heavy for healing magic to mend. She’d wanted to make it slow, to torment him as his memory had tormented her for ten years. But this was enough. It would be over now.

High Lord Caradoc let Fearghas’s body crumple to the ground. He cocked his head as he examined her, dragging his violet eyes up and down her battered form. “Would anyone care to explain how I ended up with a female soldier?”

“Illyrian will,” Bree replied, and to her surprise, the High Lord laughed.

He sobered quickly as he turned to his mate. “Go home to Aderyn.”

“What about Rhysand?”

The High Lord looked coldly at his son, who was unconscious between his friends. “I’ll do the two of you the courtesy of pretending I never saw this happen. But it shall be the last time. Take him wherever you planned to go, but leave the ash stakes in until after he wakes up. As punishment for being foolish enough to be captured in the first place.”

“Yes, High Lord,” Cassian and Azriel murmured.

“As for you,” the High Lord said to Bree, “I might be interested in keeping you close. Complete your mission, and then report to the Court of Nightmares. I may have use for you.”

Bree stiffened at the order, but she dared not say anything.

“Now if the _family business_ is take care of,” Caradoc said with a sneer, “I have a War to win.” And, like a wraith, he vanished into nothingness.

There was a sound of puffing breath behind them and Mor came bounding toward them. Her face was smeared with blood but her eyes shone with adrenaline. “There you are!” she cried. “You were supposed to meet me another league south!”

“We were held up,” Azriel replied, his eyes locked on her.

Mor turned to Lady Aerona and then noticed Fearghas’s body on the ground. “That all settled, then?”

“Thank you for the assistance in getting here, Morrigan,” Lady Aerona said. “It was clear the High Lord wasn’t going to bother about it until it threatened me. But I felt quite secure surrounded by three such powerful Illyrians.” Bree blinked in shock when Lady Aerona graced her with a smile.

“I’ll take you home,” Mor said.

“No need to exhaust yourself,” Lady Aerona said.

“It’s no trouble.”

“Very well.” Lady Aerona stepped toward her, elegant wings draping behind her. She paused when she passed Bree. “Future generations of females will tell tales about you, young one,” she said. “But listen to me carefully. Do not report to the Court of Nightmares. Seek out your purpose somewhere else--do not allow this court to strangle you. I sense that the time will come when a soldier like you is needed again. Protect yourself until then, so that when war does return to Prythian--as I know it will--you shall be prepared to defend it.”

“Yes, Lady,” Bree said, though the words sounded distant even to her.

“Shall we go, Morrigan?” Lady Aerona extended her arm and Mor nodded. In a blink, they had vanished.

“That was some shit,” Cassian said after a low whistle. Bree didn’t even know what part he was referring to.

What seemed only a moment later, Morrigan returned for Azriel, Cassian, Rhysand, and Bree. Too weak to feel nauseated as they tumbled through the air, Bree just sank to the ground the moment they set foot inside the warded cabin. Cassian and Azriel urged Rhysand to a bedroom, leaving Bree alone with Mor in the living room.

Silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing, filled the den. Mor offered Bree water, which she gratefully accepted even though she had trouble holding the glass still in her shaking hand.

“How do you feel?” Mor asked gently.

“I don’t know,” Bree whispered.

“That’s all right. It’s all right not to know.” She patted Bree’s shoulder, and at that brief, comforting gesture, Bree dissolved into tears.

-

Only Mor left the cabin over the next few weeks. She was called to negotiate the terms of the Treaty, as a friend of the mortal queens. They saw little of her, and when she did appear, they carefully avoided the topic to resist agitating her.

The ash stakes came out of Prince Rhysand’s wings not long after he woke up. He cursed himself upside down and backwards for passing out in the end, but Cassian called him a prideful ass for caring. Everyone there regretted missing the end of the battle, but it had turned in their favor. Amarantha was routed, and the wicked armies were being forced into signing the Treaty under negotiation in the human capital.

They were all furious when Mor came and reported the final terms. No restitution was to be paid by Hybern or Amarantha or any of their vile allies. A Wall was to be constructed between the mortal realm and the faerie realms, an effort to prevent enslavement from happening ever again. But when Prince Rhysand heard that Amarantha was to get away unpunished, he roared at the sky for hours. Eventually, Bree, Cassian, and Azriel joined him in roaring at the stars--not because they hated Amarantha the way Rhys did, but in solidarity with their Illyrian brother.

“I’ll never understand you Illyrians,” Mor muttered to Bree when they all came back inside.

“No,” Bree agreed, and Mor smiled.

“What are . . . what are you planning to do?” Mor asked suddenly. “Lady Aerona said not to go to the Court of Nightmares. Will you?”

Bree shook her head. “I still want what I said before. Freedom.”

“That will be harder to get once the Wall goes up.”

“Unless I’m on the other side of it when it does.” Bree had been thinking about the possibility since she’d heard the Wall was to be constructed. She would be known as Illyrian anywhere in Prythian--perhaps even on the Continent. But if she went South . . .

“That’s already a violation of the Treaty,” Mor said, “unless . . .”

Bree raised an eyebrow.

Mor sucked in a deep breath. “You met Miryam and Drakon. My friends. We’ve found a place for them, away from Prythian, across the Erythrean Sea. I’m sure they’d have you, if you wanted to join them there. They’re not Illyrian, but they’re winged, at least.”

Bree’s eyes lit up. “An island? Far away?”

Mor nodded.

Bree gazed out the front door at the beautiful Night Court sky. “I wouldn’t have to hide.”

“No,” Mor agreed. “You’d be safe and hidden, but not trapped.”

“I’ve grown tired of running,” Bree admitted.

“I don’t blame you.” Mor looked sideways at Bree and smiled. “I admire you, Bree. You’re tough in ways that I do not see often. And I’m used to being around that lot.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder to gesture at her cousin and friends. “I think Lady Aerona is right about you. You need to protect yourself and grow stronger. The time may come when you’re needed again.”

“I want to go,” Bree said. She didn’t even have to think about it. An island of peace, where she could be herself and not worry about Illyrians hunting her or about wars or about sheer survival. _Peace_.

Mor smiled and brush Bree’s bangs back from her forehead. “I’ll take you first thing in the morning.” She turned and walked back into the cabin.

Bree lingered by the door, her eyes scanning the stars. Her heart thought of her sister, who had fought so hard and pushed Bree to survive, to make it out of their poor lot in life. _Emer. I miss you_ , Bree thought. _But I’ve kept my promise, you see? I’ve survived. I’ve survived._

She drew in a deep breath of early spring air. _But now_ , she continued to herself this time. _Now, at last, it’s time for me to live._


End file.
